


sunset

by tsunderestorm



Category: Compilation of Final Fantasy VII
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Established Relationship, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-12
Updated: 2020-06-12
Packaged: 2021-03-04 03:29:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,145
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24686914
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tsunderestorm/pseuds/tsunderestorm
Summary: Tseng flies out of Midgar at half-past seven, bound south for Junon.
Relationships: Rufus Shinra/Tseng
Comments: 15
Kudos: 96





	sunset

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally intended to be pwp but… here we are. I can’t ever put a gratuitous amount of headcanon and scene-setting and ~ _emotion_ ~ into it, what can I say!
> 
> Suspend your disbelief here with me people, I don’t actually know how long it takes in real-time to fly anywhere on the Planet. Midgar and Junon seem close enough that with the right resources, a booty call doesn’t seem too impossible though, right? Right!

The call rings in not on Tseng’s Shinra-issue handheld, but on his personal phone. The phone that no one knows he has, purchased discreetly at some stand at the edges of one sector or another, just below-plate where it’s not quite the slums but the merchants don’t ask questions. A burner phone. A phone whose match currently resides in Junon, in the hands of Rufus Shinra.

He flips the antiquated device open, hits the green key to answer and when he raises it to his ear, a low, smooth voice says, “Hello, Tseng. I’d like to see you. Tonight.”

Tseng responds coolly, levelly, “Understood,” and the line goes silent. The less time spent on the air, the better… the less time spent within distance of any cell tower that Tseng’s presence can be linked to, the wiser. He is beyond reproach, of course, and an investigation into his actions at this point is unlikely, but still - when one plays the kind of game he’s been playing since ascending to his Directorial position, one can never exercise too much caution. He tucks the phone into his breast pocket and allows himself a moment - one of complacent satisfaction, of heart fluttering euphoria alongside a spike gut-clenching heat that burns up his spine before he swallows all of them down in favor of the professional mask that has gotten him everything he has. 

He knows what Reno would call it, imagines his subordinate’s lips wrapping around the words: _booty call_. It’s not that, though. To refer to it as such is pointless, trite and idiotic, a coarse phrasing that is far beneath him. Too simplistic, too casual, not nearly enough to convey what it is that he and Rufus have - 

Dragging him back to Gaia from where he’d let his head drift up into the clouds, a notification on his Shinra handheld pings up on the screen. It’s from an alert system designed to indicate any larger-than-average transactions as they pass through Rufus’ account to be reconciled. It shows a withdrawal in the amount of several hundred thousand gil, paid to a merchant whose name Tseng does not recognize. Before Heidegger can send him a hasty, misspelled order to investigate, Tseng’s fingers are rapid-fire on the screen, typing out a message indicating his intent to fly to Junon and see to the matter personally. 

To see _Rufus_ … personally. 

It raises no suspicions when he asks that a helicopter be prepared, indicating that pre-flight preparations and weather calculations should be focused just south, towards Junon. Two higher-level Public Security officers salute him before they march off to make the arrangements, no questions asked as to why he’s leaving the city at half-past seven on a quiet, uneventful weeknight. Heidegger favors employees who are steadfast but stupid, quick to follow orders so long as the mouth giving them belongs to a person with a shiny enough badge. Tseng’s badge may as well glisten like gold: Clearance Level 7, the highest that there is. Within half an hour, there is a helicopter fueled, charged and waiting on the tarmac.

The flight out of Midgar and south down the coast is uneventful, the watercolor sprawl of eventide painting the glimmering harbor in fuchsia and tangerine as the waves swallow the sun. He lands expertly atop the garrison, climbing out of the cockpit to two armed Shinra guards who stand down as quickly as they snapped to attention. They know him by now, and each offers a compulsory _Sir_ as he steps past them. He offers barely an inclination of his head, and whether it’s out of disinterest or distraction he is not sure. It doesn’t matter. 

It’s not that he’s worried they’ll see a flush on his cheeks, a darkness in his eyes, or even the private smile he feels pulling at his lips. The stark, naked truth of why he’s here, not out of professionalism or dedication to duty, but summoned from Midgar like the loyal dog he’s been likened to. Nuzzling at the hand of the master rather than the assigned. He’s not nearly so transparent, and surely not for some low-level, fresh meat Public Security grunts. But still. One must consider everything a threat. He wasn’t due for another check-in of Shinra’s most high-profile prisoner for a few days, and even though the excuse that Rufus so thoughtfully provided for him is nearly air-tight, the deviation makes this risky. It makes it stupid. 

It makes it even more of a rush as he crosses through the skywalk to the secretive entrance to Rufus’ penthouse, a vacation suite for President Shinra that converted easily to a gilded cage for his errant son. Luxurious, but still a prison. He has everything he could possibly ask for: a television (only broadcasting Shinra news, carefully curated and powered by propaganda), a laptop (hooked up to the Shinra Building’s mainframe, with firewalls and security protocols even Rufus’ clever tricks cannot evade) and windows that overlook the harbor (equipped with infrared, nearly-invisible security bars should Rufus get any ideas about climbing out the window to evade the camera aimed at the front door). Tseng dislikes it, but he can’t hate it - right now, it means Rufus. 

Darkstar lifts its head when Tseng swipes in, a low growl rippling through the air as it bears wicked-sharp teeth before seeing who has opened its master’s door. Tail wagging excitedly, it scoots over to rest at Tseng’s feet, belly on the ground and paws splayed out in front of it. It offers a happy whine before it rests its snout atop Tseng’s shoe. Tseng closes the door, listening for the telltale _click_ that will assure him that it’s safe. A curtain has been drawn, a secretive, liminal space entered... things have changed, in a way that he never expected to let them. Within Rufus’ penthouse, at least for tonight, he is not the Director of the Turks and this is not a mission of standard protocol to verify that the traitor is on his best behavior. He is _Tseng,_ and this is _Rufus_ , and as he bends down to offer Darkstar a scritch behind its bristly ears the man watches his every movement with thinly-veiled lust. 

Seated on the couch, Rufus is clad only in a luxuriously soft bathrobe. Twirling a flute of champagne between his fingers, bubbles born from the depths of the glass rise only to fizzle and burst at the surface. If Tseng were a more poetic man, he might liken it to the way his heart climbs into his throat when he sees his lover, or perhaps the way hope rises like a balloon into a free, open sky. Tseng’s breath catches in his throat for no reason other than pure, simple wonder, awestruck by Rufus’ features in the soft light: the slope of his nose, the curve of his full lips as he offers a satisfied smile, the subtle glow of dewy skin and aristocratic cheekbones as he tilts his head. 

Tseng’s hand keeps scratching Darkstar’s ears, kneeling beside it to seize the opportunity to distract his attention, locking his own with the beast’s crimson eyes instead of Rufus’ icy blues. Satisfied with the attention it’s received, Darkstar slinks off back to Rufus’ feet, laying with its snout on its paws, and Tseng rises to his feet. He powers off his handheld and sets it on the table beside the door along with the cheap plastic phone that had started all of this. Finally, he speaks, unbuttoning his suit jacket and draping it over the edge of a chair, stripping his gloves off and setting them on top. “You know, it is considerably less romantic when your lonely requests end up turning into work for me. What on Gaia did you spend that much gil on?”

Rufus smirks, a curated work of art. “Why, Tseng… I bought you a present,” he says, gesturing with his champagne flute at a wrapped package on the low table before him. He leans his elbow on the back of the couch, resting his cheek on his hand and looking Tseng over, the veil barely disguising his lust growing ever thinner, sheer and insubstantial. “I would think you’d be grateful.”

Divested of his jacket and gloves, Tseng takes a seat on the couch, allowing the briefest brush of his hand against Rufus’ leg, fingers grazing over the elegant curve of his ankle as the man shifts to make room for him. It is chaste and scandalous all at once, a jolt of electricity through Tseng’s fingertips. How absolutely pathetic, that he can withstand gunshots and torture, but what nearly unmakes him is Rufus Shinra’s bare ankle.

The package is small and square, light in his hands when he lifts it from the polished tabletop. He slides his finger under the sumptuous oxblood ribbon that feels silky-smooth beneath his fingers, tugging the gift box loose of its clutches. The box is so crisp that it makes a hollow sound when he removes the lid, and inside, nestled in a bed of luxurious, midnight-black velvet, is a pair of earrings. They shine as he tips the box back and forth in his hands, bluer than Gaia’s purest ocean and glittering like starlight.

What Tseng should say is that they are unwelcome, a frivolous indulgence that will draw more attention than necessary. He should say that they are a gift he cannot accept, useless when he has a perfectly suitable pair of jewels in his earlobes at present. He should accept that Rufus is a spoiled brat who wants to dress up the prize he stole from his father like a doll and that, while Tseng can do nothing to stop it, he should tell him that he resents the luxury that Rufus tends to try and lavish on him.

He should say a lot of things, but he does not lie to Rufus Shinra. What he does do, instead, is lean into his lover’s outstretched hand. 

“Come here,” Rufus orders, and Tseng moves smoothly, obediently, so he’s sitting _with_ Rufus on the couch rather than next to him, kneeling atop his legs. “You’ve worn this pair a while, now.”

Pushing Tseng’s hair back from his face and behind the lovely curve of his ear, Rufus brings his fingers to the lobe and delicately pulls the back off of the earring stud. He pulls it out and sets it inside the box beside the gifted pair before repeating the action on his other ear. Tseng looks at the old jewelry there, twin rubies red as fire materia, red as Darkstar’s eyes, and thinks the sapphires suit him better. That _Rufus_ suits him better. 

Time slows, shifts. There is only this: a small moment in time, private even in the midst of Rufus’ very existence being surveilled, and all of the air has been sucked out of the room and left Tseng with nothing to subsist on. He thinks, were he a more demanding man, that he might insist that Rufus kiss him, share the breath in his lungs and take responsibility for what he’s done. Instead, though, he defers. Waits for Rufus to set the pace of the night.

Rufus offers a _hmm_ of interest, of approval, of appreciation as he slides one of the new earrings through the empty hole in Tseng’s earlobe, locking the butterfly back on. He strokes his fingertip beneath Tseng’s ear, nudging against his collar as he chases a bit of a hidden skin before gliding down to his lap to retrieve the jewel’s mate from the gift box. He repeats the process on the other ear, and by the time he’s done Tseng is embarrassed to admit that he’s breathing heavy, hiding it with a laugh that could fool anyone... save for the man it is intended for.

Rufus saying, “ _Beautiful_ ,” is Tseng’s cue to look up at him. “Absolutely exquisite, as expected.” 

“I’m sure it doesn’t escape your knowledge,” Tseng sighs as he sits back on his heels, “that a condition of your house arrest includes accounting for every gil spent.”

Rufus quirks a brow at him, fingertips reaching out to rest lightly on Tseng’s chin, guiding the turn of his head right, and then left, admiring the jewels he’s put into his ears yet again. “Is that so? And who, I wonder, accounts for that?”

Rufus’ question is rhetorical. When money is funneled directly from one’s father’s pockets into terrorist organizations, accountability must exist. The situation must never happen again. When prodigal sons use their father’s riches to undermine him, they lose the right to freely access that money President Shinra has asked Tseng to personally oversee Rufus during the duration of his house arrest (read: develop a suitable budget, catalog expenditures, account for each and every gil that moves in and out of Rufus’ account) and report back to him directly. Rufus, insufferable prick that he is, is very much aware of that fact.

“What reason should I give as to why you’re purchasing luxury goods, Sir?” 

“It’s _my_ allowance,” Rufus says, petulantly, tipping his head back and finishing the rest of his champagne. “I can spend my money however I want, as long as it’s not putting bombs in the hands of terrorists or the Headquarters’ key codes in the ears of assassins.”

Tseng shakes his head. “You are… “

“Too kind?” Rufus asks. “I know.”

The jewels are marks of ownership, the same way his rubies were. Those, though, had been gifts from the elder Shinra, given when he was younger, less powerful, obligated to accept. He had felt their hateful weight like hot lead, and as he’d grown older there had been more important things than the jewels in his ears. 

If he didn’t know Rufus inside and out, he’d think that this was nothing but a masturbatory performance. He does, though, knows that the gift represents a lot of things, meanings hidden in each twinkling facet of the gemstones. Is it a small, sensual display of ownership that Tseng can wear even when face-to-face with the President and his executives? Yes. But it’s more than that - Rufus is, at his core, a man who demands loyalty and offers it in turn, and he’s done more than enough to convince him in the years spent growing up alongside him that the gifts are also given with love, with a desire to see Tseng elevated to the status at which Rufus intends to keep him. Before he’d been stolen from Wutai as a child, he’d been nearly a prince. Rufus intends to make him royalty again, his partner in the empire he plans to turn Shinra Electric Power into when it’s himself on the top floor.

Tseng is thinking too much. 

“I was thinking ‘ridiculous’, Sir,” he says. “Irresponsible.”

“None of that. You drop _sir_ at the door,” Rufus scolds, then adds with a heavy weight to his smooth voice and that charming, sharpened smile tugging at the edge of his mouth, “unless it’s ‘ _yes sir, Mister President_ ’.” 

Tseng is betraying the President. Betraying the man who, despite being the reason he’s abandoned any claim to his Wutaian citizenship, has sheltered him, educated him, given him luxury the likes of which his own son has received. The man who has employed him, who spared his life when it was threatened… the same man who takes what he wants and uses him as a tool, a blade or a gun, deadly either way. The same man who cares not for his subordinates, but for the results they can produce. 

The treason of the feelings in his heart turned to words in his mouth should taste acidic, bloody copper tang from biting a traitor’s tongue, but all that he tastes when Rufus leans in for a deep, slow kiss is the familiar flavors of his lover: expensive champagne mingled with the rich, full-bodied spice and cream of the dinner he’d eaten before Tseng arrived. If emotions have a taste, Tseng imagines that trust and gratitude taste like Rufus Shinra, that he finds _devotion_ when his tongue licks into Rufus’ mouth and _love_ in the air he sucks in shakily when Rufus pauses to breathe. 

Rufus rises to meet him, body arching off the couch and against Tseng’s as his arms coil around his waist. His thumbs are already gliding along the top of Tseng’s slacks, dipping inside in an effort to free his shirt-tails from where they’re elegantly tucked. Tseng bites at Rufus’ lips for the impatience, the jostling that ensues when Rufus tugs hard enough to snap the hem of his shirt out of its shirt garters. Rufus’ eyes gleam at him as he lifts the shirt up and starts to work on the buttons, baring Tseng’s smooth chest under the questing path of his hands. Tseng gasps when one of Rufus’ fingers - cold as ice, from the chilled champagne flute - grazes over a nipple. There’s a push and pull, a tug of war - not a struggle for dominance, no… not something so pedestrian, so ill-thought. SJust a few simple moments to determine the mood, to set the tone for the evening, to see who has a craving that needs sated and to see whose desires will win out in the end. 

A trick question, that. Rufus always wins, because he is Rufus, and because Tseng is obedient. Luckily, what Rufus wants aligns perfectly with what Tseng wants.

It starts with them on the couch, Tseng beneath him with one leg hooked around Rufus’ waist and the other hanging off the edge. He inches Rufus’ bathrobe up with his leg, feels the heat of his bare skin even through his slacks. Rufus kisses him like a man half-starved, putting every epithet and endearment that his pride won’t allow him to say aloud into the kiss. It’s all-consuming, devouring, born of weeks apart and long-distance desire. Tseng is panting when Rufus pulls back, the black of his pupils nearly eclipsing the icy blue of his eyes. He slides a hand beneath Tseng’s head, cradling it as his fingers undo the band tying back his hair, letting it fall like water over his fingers and fan over the couch cushion. Tseng nearly purrs in response, bringing his hand up to caress Rufus’ cheek, over smooth, soft skin. 

It continues with Rufus on the ground, Darkstar sniffing at Rufus’ hand as his fingernails scratch through the plush carpet, shooed with a simple command to his bed in the corner, his “parents” left for private things. Tseng bears down against him, hitching Rufus’ robe up around his waist, spreading his thighs to get a knee against Rufus’ cock and oh, _gods_ , is that good. Tseng has incredible thighs, just the right amount of slender and toned and he knows just how to grind it against Rufus when he’s needy. It takes one smooth motion to get his leg parallel to Rufus’ thigh and he arches up, smearing precum over Tseng’s immaculate suit and feeling incredibly proud about it. He shudders when Tseng grinds forward, bearing down against his balls and making him hiss in pain and pleasure, just the perfect amount. Just what Tseng is best at.

Rufus wants him naked. Tseng’s shirt is half-unbuttoned and Rufus completes the task, working each button free from its cradle and pushing the shirt down Tseng’s arms. Tseng follows, obedient, letting the shirt fall down and off beside them, his hair falling in a curtain over his bare shoulder as he looks down at him. Tseng is stunning, even if he doesn’t care. Beautiful, handsome, and everything in between, his olive skin has a pretty flush when Rufus skims his hands over it, one that matches the heat of his own skin from the tips of his ears to halfway down his chest. Long lashes that flutter when he’s touched just right, a stern mouth that doesn’t quite match his baby-soft lips, eyes dark like cabernet. 

A simple “ _Stay_ ” to Darkstar and the swinging-open of the heavy door to Rufus’ bedroom earns them the privacy they need, has Tseng on his back beneath Rufus once more as Rufus’ hands busy themselves with his belt, the button and zipper of his slacks, the tight-fitting briefs restraining the dick he’s dying to touch. Tseng loves those hands, loves the way they look in the fingerless gloves he favors, loves the press of his fingers - fingers he taught to pull a trigger, fingers he’s licked and kissed and sucked, fingers he’s felt on him, in him. Rufus tugs his pants and underwear down his thighs with an impatient huff, when Tseng doesn’t lift up soon enough for him to yank them off. His shirt garters and socks are tangled in the pile of clothes that Rufus tosses impatiently aside and Tseng bites back a laugh. 

“Over,” Rufus says, and Tseng obeys out of desire rather than duty. It’s been a few weeks since they’ve seen each other and longer still since he’s been fucked proper. Rufus’ thumb circles his hole slick with lube, accepting the invitation Tseng’s body offers without even having to ask for admittance, the pad of his thumb slipping past his rim with a self-satisfied little “ _ah,”_ that Tseng finds so endearing. He crosses his arms and rests his cheek against them, letting his eyes slide closed as Rufus’ finger presses into him from inside, stretching him when he adds another, and then a third. He’s no stranger to this, humming in pleasure as Rufus offers just the barest stroke of his crooked finger against his prostate, not bothering to hold back a full-body shiver of anticipation. 

“You look irresistible like this,” Rufus says as he leans forward for balance, busying his free hand with stroking Tseng’s cock where it hangs neglected between his thighs. “Bent over, stretched around my fingers, your cock hard fo _r me_.”

Compliments from Rufus are not given freely. He has expectations, knows that things will be done and done right and that the subordinates doing them don’t need any validation. But not Tseng. For Tseng there is “ _good job_ ” and “ _just like that”_ , for Tseng there is the grind of Rufus’ slick thumb against his perineum before his fingers cup his balls, squeezing gently as his dick bumps against the back of his thigh. For Tseng there is “ _incredible, the way your hair feels like silk”_ when he reaches forward to card fingers through it, draping his small frame over Tseng’s back as he works him open and then there is “ _you swallow me up like a dream_ ”.

Rufus is content to let Tseng relax, content to let him muffle the small gasps of pleasure as he prepares him, but when he’s deemed Tseng ready - as if Tseng wasn’t ready the moment he saw Rufus, as if he wouldn’t have taken him dry if that had been the only way he could have him - Rufus tangles his fingers into the lovely fall of his hair until he holds it, pulls his face up from the cradle of his arms and speaks.

“Don’t be naughty, Tseng,” he scolds, voice dripping self-satisfaction as he tugs on Tseng’s hair. “I’ll hear every sound, thank you.”

With that, he glides a hand wet with lube up his heated length and slips inside, trading fingers for cock. Tseng moans like a whore when Rufus fills him, makes him snap his hips forward in impatience he knows better than to show. It reeks of inexperience, tacky and tasteless, but _gods_ the clutch of Tseng around him makes him dizzy, the arch of his toned, scarred back and the way he looks over his shoulder, smug like the cat that got the canary. Rufus allows himself a moment to collect himself and then starts to fuck him in earnest, hair falling in his face and sticking to his sweaty forehead as he moves. Tseng is not a loud lover, prone more to breathy pants but Rufus prides himself on making Tseng surprise himself and he pulls a shout out of his lover when he fucks in _deep_ , the sounds of skin against skin and his own blood rushing in his ears filling his mind and the half-lit bedroom.

Tseng comes around his cock without much of a show, crying out as Rufus wraps the length of his hair once more around his fist to pull _harder_ , to add just a bite of pain to the pleasure as he spills shiny ropes of cum on Rufus’ freshly laundered sheets. Tseng is panting when Rufus pulls back, and it’s with reluctance that he allows his dick to slip free of his guard’s slack, wet hole. Tseng can take more even once he’s come, would and _has_ , but Rufus doesn’t want him wrung-dry and over-stimulated, at least not tonight. He wants his turn, still, and for that he can’t push too far. 

“My turn, now,” Rufus says as he climbs off of him and lies down, dick achingly hard and swollen-dark as it juts against his belly. “Seeing as you’ll stay.”

Tseng collects himself, moving so he’s arranged beside Rufus: head propped on his elbow, hair falling over his shoulder and down his flushed chest, legs crossed at the ankle and cock softening between his thighs. 

It is an order, Tseng knows, from the tone of his voice and the flash of his eyes, but Tseng has defied orders before. He’s already risked enough by entertaining this bit of indulgence, and if he dresses now and walks back to his chopper parked on the helipad, he can be home in Midgar (probably) before anyone important enough to matter notices that he’s been gone longer than expected.

He could do that. He _should_ do that, but another thing that he could do is stay. He knows precisely what time he’ll have to drag himself out of Rufus’ possessive embrace to leave him enough time to jump in the shower, change into one of the suits he has hidden at the back of the Vice President’s closet, and leave on a red-eye flight that puts him back in Midgar at seven forty-five a.m., leaving him to deal with his indiscretions in the form of black coffee. 

He opts for the latter, and Rufus’ approval radiates from him like light from the sun, the heat of a collapsing star. Then it is him yet again pressing Tseng down against the plushness of the luxurious mattress he’d demanded, but the tune is different. Now, it’s him spreading Tseng’s legs to settle in between them, pressing an open-mouthed kiss to the jut of his hip as he locks eyes with him. Rufus has always wanted attention and has never received enough of it, and Tseng wouldn’t _dare_ look away. Rufus moves up his body and presses his lips to Tseng’s shoulder and maybe he murmurs something quiet, there, something sweet and low, before he kisses a line from Tseng’s neck back down to his navel, glancing up long enough to make sure Tseng’s eyes are open before he dips lower still and takes his cock down his throat in one smooth motion. 

Tseng’s hands fist in the sheets, unwilling to curl into Rufus’ platinum strands without permission, hips bucking up into the wet heat of his lover’s mouth. “I can’t stay too late,” Tseng says, gasping as the head of his cock bumps the back of Rufus’ throat. Gods, he’s good at sucking cock, but Tseng supposes it’s not a surprise given all of the practice he’s given him. 

“What happens if you’re to the morning’s meeting?” Rufus asks as he rests his cheek against Tseng’s thigh, tongue darting from between his lips to give his stiffening cock tender kitten-licks as he watches the muscles in his belly tense with each touch. “It’s not like Heidegger will fire you.”

“I’ve never been late in my life,” Tseng pants. Too demanding, again, but he wishes Rufus would just put his cock back in his mouth - he doesn’t normally get it up again _this_ soon after coming how he had, but something about this time is different. “It’s unprofessional.”

“When I’m President,” Rufus says, licking his palm wet before cupping Tseng’s balls in it, “you’ll be late because you’re in bed with me. How can it be unprofessional, when you’re attending to your boss?”

He toys with him, skims fingers feather-light over his thighs, knuckles at the vein on the underside of his cock, working him to hardness again. 

“Someday,” Rufus mumbles against the inside of Tseng’s thigh, “duty won’t call you away from me. _I_ will be your only duty.”

The possibility makes Tseng shiver. It’s not that he’s unhappy with his position, but the idea of being with Rufus twenty-four/seven, the idea of being a personal bodyguard rather than an occasional one, the idea of being _his_ is too much to handle. Emboldened, Tseng rises onto his elbows as his dick slips from between Rufus’ pearly lips and before the man can blink, Tseng has their positions flipped.

Leaning over him, he teases,“You know, _Mister President_ , that I always do my duties with the utmost of dedication.” He skims his hand up Rufus’ body, pressing just enough to make him jump with each feathery touch. Rufus’ lips part easily when Tseng presses a finger to them, slides another in alongside it as soon as Rufus is drawing it deeper into his mouth, swirling his tongue around his fingers. “I take great pride in my work.”

Rufus nips at Tseng’s finger, teeth nicking the knuckle briefly before Tseng pinches his tongue, scowling playfully when Rufus’ brows shoot up in disbelief. When Rufus has his fingers wet and dripping with spit, Tseng works his hand between them to glide a finger between Rufus’ legs and down against his hole, dipping inside enough to make the man shudder beneath him. Rufus’ hole isn’t _loose_ , per se, but it’s obvious enough to someone who knows his body as Tseng does that he’d gotten at least _something_ up there earlier in the day. 

Rufus is too proud to plead, too proud to form words into sentences comprised of words like _please_ or _need_ , but he begs with every curve of his body mapped out under Tseng’s hands, with his crystal blue eyes eclipsed by the blackness of his blown pupils, with his full lips and the way each subtle, breathy, exhaled pant fluffs at his hair hanging in his face. Tseng reaches for the lube Rufus had discarded, half-buried in the pool of his fluffy robe and the bed’s rumpled blankets, doles out a generous amount onto his fingers and returns in earnest. Rufus opens for him with a hunger that makes Tseng feel lightheaded, too hot and dizzy. Like his skin is too tight to contain all of the desire brewing within it and his mind doesn’t know how to cope with the feeling. 

“I know how much pride you take in doing your job,” Rufus says breathlessly, hips lifting off the bed to draw Tseng’s fingers deeper inside of his ass. “Why do you think I want you with me, always?”

Tseng rubs a hand up Rufus’ leg clutched around his waist, fingertips pressing against his shapely calves, the insides of his knees, the dimpled backs of his thighs. He rests his President’s leg on his shoulder, leaving him spread wide with his pretty pink cock leaking onto his belly. Precum smears into the light fuzz of hair trailing down from his navel, barely visible and so soft beneath Tseng’s fingers. He thumbs over the head of Rufus’ cock as he positions his own at his hole, watching the way Rufus’ eyes flutter with unabashed pleasure. It’s a heady potion, knowing he can make proud Rufus Shinra look like this with just the _promise_ of cock. 

It is a promise he keeps, as he has kept all promises to the man he owes his life to. Rufus stretches to accommodate his cock easily, slack and slick and relaxed, head tipped back against the pillows as Tseng fills him. He breathes _that’s right_ as Tseng’s balls press against him, humming with the knowledge that Tseng is seated to the hilt. Tseng allows him a few moments, moments in which he watches him and drinks in every expression that flits over his handsome face. They say that some creatures can survive without water for weeks, even months, but can he survive without the radiance of Rufus Shinra’s blissed-out sex faces, without the music of his love sounds.

When Rufus has adjusted, he gives an almost imperceptible nod and Tseng begins to fuck him slow and deep, the way Rufus likes, the way he’ll complain if he doesn’t get. Rufus’ legs are slender, pampered smooth and nearly-hairless, and pillowy soft against Tseng’s lips when he kisses his calf, hooking his leg over his shoulder to get at a better angle. Rufus bucks his hips up into Tseng’s grip when he gets a hand on his cock, swiping his thumb over the head and gliding down to the base in a half-slick drag that makes Rufus shudder. Tseng focuses on his movements - the snap of his hips, the slow thrusts as he lets the tip of his dick press against a spot inside of Rufus that makes him nearly whine. 

The second time is different; sneaking up and cresting swift and not-at-all subtle, and Tseng feels it pinching at his balls as Rufus clutches tight around him. He’s almost… _cute_ , like this, with the controlling impatience fucked out, leaving in its wake a deep, aching hunger that only Tseng can sate. Rufus comes first, naturally, given that he didn’t have an orgasm dragged out of him damn near the moment they’d started. His cum splatters his belly, dripping down his chest from where Tseng has his hips hiked up against his body, but Tseng follows soon after, letting his dick slip free to spill on the backs of Rufus’ thighs so he doesn’t fuss about feeling _messy_. There’s something about him like this, something about the way he looks so in-control and debauched all at once, that makes Tseng feel almost possessive himself. No one else sees him like this, and no one ever will. 

The digital clock at the edge of the muted television screen flashes an unwelcome reminder of the time. Of the inevitability of goodbye. If he leaves now, Tseng could make it back to Midgar by four forty-five a.m., enough time to perhaps shower at his own apartment rather than the employee recreation floor and steal an hour, maybe an hour and a half of sleep before changing into a fresh suit. He could have the breakfast he usually denies himself, and review Rude’s reports on Reno’s findings from the previous day. He stares at the screen until the numbers burn into his brain, until Rufus’ fingers cup his chin and drag his attention impatiently back to him. A thumb runs over his lips, dipping between them to be suckled and Tseng obeys, letting Rufus’ finger rest flat on his tongue as he looks at him. 

“Stay,” Rufus says. It sounds less like an order and more like a plea, and Tseng falls asleep in Rufus’ arms after setting no less than six alarms on the bedside table clock. 

The flight home is a blur, the cockpit of his helicopter too big for his own thoughts, his own feelings. He smells of Rufus, the lingering smell of sex that persists even after a shower, something he supposes is more psychological than physical. He smells like Rufus’ cologne, fading wisps of grapefruit and peppery spice, the clean scent of the custom blend of lemongrass soap he had in the shower. 

Landing time on the tarmac is exactly forty-one seconds past seven thirty-seven a.m., and he is in the President’s office facing him and Heidegger by seven fifty-five. The smell of Rufus’ shampoo lingers in his hair and there is a bruise sucked into his skin at the sensitive juncture of neck and shoulder, a remnant of Rufus’ passion. 

Heidegger barks, “Report”, and the President regards Tseng coolly. 

“The criminal in question is secure. No changes. The deviation from his monthly spending has been assessed, recorded, and cataloged into the arrest record. He had purchased some harmless luxury goods. I informed him that his allowance will not be adjusted, even if he has spent most of it before month’s end. Is that all, sirs?”

The President waves a dismissal as Heidegger grunts.

When he’s ascended the staircase and the door to the Executive Suite has swung securely closed behind him, Tseng breaks his composure long enough to tuck a strand of hair behind his ear, brushing a finger over one of the shimmering sapphires in their mythril prongs, and thinks of the future. 

Of _his_ future beside Rufus. 

**Author's Note:**

> [I am tsunderestorm on twitter](tsunderestorm) ♥


End file.
